Leah Lays London

We are in the kitchen cooking together. The boyfriend can’t make anything more complicated than a salad. He is cutting vegetables for me. He is my sous-chef.

The roles are reversed momentarily, or so I believe, until he hands me a cucumber and tells me to pull down my jeans. He goes to his knees and deftly slices away the front panel of my underwear. Taking the cucumber from me, he rubs it over my pussy lips and tells me to fuck myself with it. I take it in hand and squeeze the tip past the entrance. I bend at the knees and push more of it inside. I turn the vegetable in my grip and lower my weight until it is halfway in, then extract and repeat on the other side.

He washes the carrots in the sink, peels off their skin, and passes them to me one after another. I press each into my pussy. The vegetables are longer than his cock and more slender. My juices coat the surfaces. Once they are out, he shaves and cuts and slices them for the salad.

I waddle around the kitchen, pants pooled at my feet, stirring the soup on the stove and readying the meal.

I hand him a baguette and ask him to spank me with it. He thwacks me with the bread, once on the ass, swinging it like a baseball bat, then uses the wooden spatula, twenty five times on the insides of my thighs. It reddens the skin, leaving it warm and stinging.

Later, he places the handle of the knife in my cunt, so that the blade points up. The erection I wear is obscene. He steadies the blade from below and cuts cherry tomatoes in half on the knife’s edge. It takes him several minutes. I am pouring wetness. It drips onto the floor. He notices and smears the tomatoes over my lips. Extracting the knife, he touches the point to my clit. I clench the counter and close my eyes. I trust him. But the point is sharp. The metal is cold. My hands are clammy. There is the rush of fear. I cannot look away. He meets my eyes looking down and pulls the knife back. His fingers touch into my pussy. He has me clean them. His tongue flicks against mine as I lick between his fingers.

There is balsamic dressing on the salad when we eat, but I taste hints of myself as well. I asked him to come in the leaves of the lettuce, but he declined, preferring to save his semen for later.

I tell him about my fantasy. I think about us hosting a party. Our guests eat a salad like this, flavored with pussy juice and spunk. The whole meal is spiced in a similar manner. Our friends comment on the novel tastes of the food we serve. They have second helpings. They enjoy our sex. The very thought of it makes me squirm.

A birthday spanking is traditional. I am now more than a quarter of a century old.

He decides he will spank me fourteen times on this trip, once for each lover I have taken in the city. Each spanking will be composed of twenty-five hard hits, which are defined as the ones that he feels, and as many small hits as pleases him. I must ask fourteen times for my spankings.

I begin at once.

He has me undress. I am naked while he remains clothed. He sits me on his lap. His feet hook around mine and force my legs apart. He wets his hand in the waters of my cunt and spanks my clit and pussy. I screw my eyes closed and wince at the initial blows. After that, he takes his time. He plays with my lips and transfers the arousal to my breasts. I ease into the touch of his fingers and rub myself against the hand. When they arrive, the slaps take me by surprise. They are an overpowering loudness in the room. Tears sting my eyes before we reach the halfway point. I hear the soft hum of the refrigerator and concentrate on that sound. I count to thirty-six, but his tolling is the one that matters. His fingers pull and pinch and twist the swollen lips of my pussy. He masturbates me to orgasm after the spanking and has me lick up what I have sprayed.

At night, I ask him for two more spankings. He takes the switch to the bottoms of my feet. He pulls me over his thighs and reddens my ass with his bare hand. I kiss the heel of his hand and his fingers when he finishes. I run my tongue over his palm. Anal sex after a spanking is my favorite.

He arrives at my door in the morning. As soon as he is inside, he has me against the wall. The kisses have a ferocity born of hunger and yearning. When there is a moment to breathe, I slide down the wall and fall to my knees. I press my lips to his cock, breathing on the head through the pores in the denim. The flesh stirs against my open mouth. I feel it becoming rigid. If it were up to me, the clothes would come off now. He would mount me from behind. We would fuck on the hard kitchen floor, heedless of the roommate who is still asleep in her bedroom. I would scream my orgasms into the early hour and shake the foundations of the building down.

It is not up to me. He hauls me to my feet.

We spend the day touching and talking. We are tourists at the museum, holding hands. We share an umbrella as we stroll through Regent’s Park. We sit at the café and catch up. My legs are propped over his while we talk of friends and work and home. His hand smooths over my thigh under the table at the pub. Over dessert, he tells me about his new lover. She is inexperienced. He is only the third man who has been inside her cunt. My foot brushes his as he speaks.

At night, the roommate crashes with her fiancé to give us a measure of space and privacy. There are no obvious tie points in my bedroom. The boyfriend improvises. The ropes slip under the mattress. They wrap my legs and my breasts. He binds me tight and takes me as he pleases. His tongue is intimate between my legs for a full hour before he undresses. He bites my clit. The vibrator presses into me as I am eaten. I beg him for his penis. He fucks my face so that I taste him in my throat. He fucks my cunt, which aches for his cock. Semen spills into me and spills out again. The orgasms on my side belong to him already. He takes that which is his.

One of the reasons I am looking forward to the boyfriend’s visit is that I miss bareback sex.

My boyfriend and I are both sexually active with multiple partners — me more so than him. I’m more likely to indulge in a one night stand. He prefers a regular coterie of lovers and typically has a couple of other women that he plays with. Under the circumstances, we use protection outside the relationship for everything except oral sex, which we regard as an acceptable risk. We also get tested for STDs twice a year. Before we moved in together, we even used condoms with each other. After we started sharing the same living space, we have eschewed protection in our own bedroom.

Because I owe it to myself and my partners, I use condoms out of necessity. I am not fond of them. I don’t like the consistency of latex. I don’t like how an erection looks when it is covered. I don’t like how it tastes or smells. If it made a noise, I’d disparage that, too. A condom clad penis never feels as natural as a naked cock boring into me. The waters from my pussy surround it, sluicing along the sides as he interrogates the void. I prefer flesh on flesh, his heat against mine with no barrier between us, the tension at the point of entry, how I stretch around an erection, the touch of skin upon muscle, the way I squeeze him and experience the subtle responses his cock makes. I like how much more sensitive the sex is. When he thrusts into my cunt, his shaft becomes coated in thick and viscous fluids. That image alone arrests me. In the endgame, the movements of his pelvis accelerate and the stem stiffens and the glans enlarges and he grunts in satisfaction and hammers me harder and harder until his body shudders, the legs trembling, and his balls contract and the shaft pulses and recoils and the semen geysers out in thick jets that bathe my womb, and I feel it — yes, I do.

After a glorious fuck, I will often cup my hand over my cunt to keep the boyfriend’s semen within. I play with it once it leaks out, using my fingers to smear it over the lips and clit. I will push the come back in again and use it as lubrication for the next go. That always feels extraordinary: to have him in me a second time, his cock in motion through what he has previously spilled. I like the slippery, sticky wetness at the beginning, how the amalgam of his semen and my cream cover the sides of his cock and trickle down his balls. I love sucking him clean once we have both orgasmed. The contrasts are vivid. His flavor heightens my own. When the come seeps out of me, as eventually it must, I like the liquid sensation between my legs when I sit or walk. I like how it slowly drips down my thighs and dries over my skin. I won’t wash it away. I like that the stains mark me as his lover. I like wearing this secret on me during the day. I like how it smells. I am sad when it flakes off.

Judging by the peaks in the page views, I am sure I owe most of my readership to having been republished on Fleshbot on several occasions in august and sexy company. I want to offer a word of thanks.

Sex echoes. Writing about the experience is thrilling. You live it in the moment as cock collides with cunt and the bodies move, and then you live it again a second time as the fingers somehow find a way to give expression to the action. It renders the ephemeral enduring. I hope my readers are able to live it, too.

Thank you for visiting. Please comment or e-mail if the compulsion strikes.

Finally, eight hours after making the initial post, let me revise by adding a few housekeeping remarks in the light of morning. I am on my period and won’t be having sex until the weekend. The boyfriend is visiting from the 14th to the 22nd. I expect to have lots of filthy sex over these nine days. I am not sure I will be putting fingers to the keyboard on the day after every time as I have been doing, however. I’d rather spend the time with him than with my laptop. But please do check in. I am sure I will write about the sexperiences eventually.

Yesterday, Frank and I watched porn. We were on my bed, naked, from late afternoon to early evening. He stretched out on the mattress with his legs open, and I leaned against him with my back cushioned against his broad chest. He enjoyed my breasts. Cupping them in his large palms, he tweaked the nipples with the fingertips, pinching till they were peaked. My hands were casually in motion between my legs, the digits teasing the pussy lips apart. The index finger crooked into a bend and stroked the sensitive layers of flesh. I used my nails to peel the hood from my clit and made compact circles around the rigid bundle of nerves. I liked when Frank’s hands joined mine at the juncture of my legs. The four hands worked together, spreading the viscous wetness over the smooth pubis. One of us fucked my cunt with the glass dildo while I brought my weight against Frank’s shoulders. He craned his head forward, and we kissed. The heat of his erection lifted from between my cheeks and climbed to the small of my back.

The laptop sat at the foot of the bed. Out of deference to Frank’s preferences, the sex was vanilla: no girls on leashes, no one being tied up, no canings with a birch rod, no piss flowing into an open mouth. Boy/girl pornography operates on a time worn formula. There is perfunctory foreplay, a five or ten minute blowjob, then fucking in the various ways, usually with extended closeups of the cock entering the pussy or the anus. The girl moans her ecstasy — maybe she comes, maybe she fakes it — and the transitions from one position to another are mediated by more cocksucking. The scene ends with her face splashed with semen and a wave goodbye.

This kind of porn doesn’t get me off. I like having extended foreplay, lots of kissing and touching between the legs, the girl being eaten for more than thirty seconds, the principals sharing eye contact with each other and not the camera. I don’t need images of genitalia filling the screen: I know what’s happening below: it has happened to me. I’d rather look at the faces during sex, the masks of pleasure the two lovers wear, the way they kiss, how the lips and tongues are a much desired presence everywhere. I want unalloyed happiness at the thrill of fucking. I want heavy perspiration, the sweat shaking off the bodies as they move. I want the music gone. I want off-camera voices to shut the hell up. I don’t need the goddamned interview segment to start. I want to listen to dirty talk during. I want long passages of verbal silence punctuated by the offhand comment, private whispers, a joke. I want to hear the squeak of the bedsprings filling the spaces between words, the slap of flesh, the noises of surprise and delight when that precise spot is touched in exactly that way, just for an instant. I want unfeigned affection, the intensity of being in the moment, a sense of welcome and belonging, the quality of palpable joy. I want laughter. I want her to scream in exultation when she creams for real. I want a come shot inside to close, the semen filling the girl’s mouth and her swallowing, the muscles of the throat visibly active as she milks the cock she holds between her lips. I want the sperm injected into her body, the penis all the way within, moving inside her afterwards as it softens, the whiteness spilling out over her thighs when he vacates her at last. I want to bask in the ardor of afterglow, the contentment following the sex, bodies snuggled close, the heaviness of limbs vined together, languorous movements, post-coital conversation.

As it happens, the porn I have, at its best, satisfies only a few of these idiosyncrasies of mine.

After we viewed a scene, Frank and I acted it out. The condom was an unfortunate sop to reality. We laughed watching the porn and laughed again trying to reproduce it. We improvised dialogue while we fucked. (Ours was better anyway.) As the scenes typically ended in a facial, despite my preferences, Frank gave me one. His come splattered my forehead and my cheeks. It pasted my eyes shut and ran down the sides of my nose and dribbled from my chin. It got into my hair. Resisting the urge to lick the semen from my lips, I brushed only what covered my eyes away. Looking up at him with a big grin, I moisturized myself with his come, smoothing it over my throat and my arms. I took his shaft in hand and used the hot, thick head to spread the warm, sticky jizz over my face. I touched the glans to a tit and squeezed the last drops over me. His foreskin brushed across the nipple. The smell of him was on me, sinking into the pores. It filled my lungs. I left kisses on his thighs in thanks and rubbed my semen coated face over his legs. I sucked his cock and his scrotum. Fortunately, Frank has no hangups about his own come. He tilted my face up and kissed me after the come shot, which is another scene you don’t see often enough in porn.

Several showers, a long run, and a workout later, the words from the day before remained visible on my skin. Instead of my normal clubbing attire, I chose a tight pair of jeans and a chest hugging tank top. The collar rose nearly to my neck in the back, but the tops of my tits spilled out the front. The outfit left little enough to the imagination, but it crucially managed to hide the graffiti that marked me as bitch and slut and cunt. It was a girls’ night out with the friends I have made at the university. The stated goal of three of the five of us was to pull.

The club we went to was jammed on a Saturday night. The lights pulsed with the heavy, throbbing beat. Raising my arms in the air, I insinuated myself into the teeming mass. I started the evening with my friends. We danced and had drinks together, and then I returned to the floor alone. I danced dirty, doing a grind with my hips and ass, rubbing up for half an hour against a dozen men until I found one who fit. We moved together, this guy and I.

Three, four, five songs later, my back was to the man. His arms wrapped my body. They caged me before him. The top of my head elevated to his chin.

The hands followed my curves, the touch hovering over the fabric of my clothes, never making contact, holding me though, holding me tight, holding me close. The hands passed over the thighs and the pelvis. The hands lifted above the abdomen. The hands floated over the chest where it swelled and dipped. The hands rose with my shoulders and fell with my arms. The hairs on my forearms bowed and stood as his touch went past. The only point of contact between us was my ass, when I bumped him in time to the pounding bass.

I turned in his arms, and he touched me. Pushing firmly between the shoulder blades and at the small of my back, he brought my body against him. My fingers looped into his belt to pull him nearer. I stuck my hands in his back pockets and spun my hips, pressing my pelvis at his. We smiled at each other. I let go, then he let go, and we danced. Perspiration ringed the border of the tank top and made the gray go dark.

In the half beat between one song and the next, his head dipped fractionally down. I stood on my toes and took advantage. He covered my mouth in response. My lips parted for his tongue, and I made room for him in my mouth. I dragged my teeth over his tongue as he pulled away from the kiss. He sucked on my lips and bit them. His leg threaded into the space between mine. I lowered my weight onto his thigh.

We danced some more, going through the motions of simulated sex in the throng of people. My breasts brushed against his chest through our shirts. I rubbed my pelvis at him, and his erection pressed back at me through the denim. He groped my tits. His hands smoothed over my ass. He tugged at the back of the thong, which peeked above the low-rise jeans, and twisted his fingers into the string. The pull at my cunt made me moan.

He moved like a picture book in the strobing light.

Would he do?

He looked at me like a predator, the hunting cat’s gleam in his eyes. My touch ascertained the exact dimensions of his cock.

Yes, he would.

“You wanna go?” I shouted at him. I didn’t know his name then, but I didn’t need to know.

Outside, we introduced ourselves and determined that his place was closer than mine. We took a cab, making out indecently in the back seat during the twenty minute drive. I liked his accent. I liked how he touched me on the stairs, the kisses we shared up against the wall. He had roommates, who were drinking and eating in the common area of the flat. We said hi and disappeared into his bedroom.

Once the clothes were off, he asked about the graffiti on my chest. I sat on the bed and covered myself with my arms self-consciously. I told him that another lover liked it. He shook his head at me. I reached for his cock to change the subject. My fingers ran along the shaft and raised it to a full erection. He thrust it at my face. “Chuparme la polla,” he said. His hands threaded through my hair, and he brought my head down over him. I gagged as he unsuccessfully attempted to force his way into my throat without any preparation at all. The saliva spilled down the sides and rained onto the sheets. “Slow down,” I suggested, clutching his thighs. I twisted my face and pouted my lips as he slid three-quarters of his length into me. My fingers ran over my slit. They dripped with the wetness between my legs.

“Condom?” I asked, during a short respite from sucking.

He found one.

The cock stretched me open. I brought my knees back and splayed my thighs to take him in. Pushing my weight off his chest with my arms, I rode him. Gradually, the equilibrium between us shifted. It flowed from me to him. I played with my clit as he fucked me from beneath. His strong hands clutched my tits. He came before I could. I masturbated myself to an orgasm after his balls had emptied.

The second time he fucked me, it was from behind. He noticed the word scrawled on my back and called me la perra. He held my wrists behind my back and hauled me over the cock. I angled my ass up at him as he entered and wiggled my hips for more. I felt so full inside. His cock made me whole. I whimpered when he withdrew and gasped when he drove the length back in. His balls slapped my buttocks as he pounded me. My hands twisted free from his grip, and I clutched the sheets and barked like the bitch dog that I am. This was a hair pulling, shoulder biting, nipple twisting, howling at the moon sort of a fuck. I came almost as we started and kept on coming until he completed.

I slept an hour or so, and woke to him maneuvering himself on top of me. He kissed me roughly as my legs opened automatically for him. We paused long enough to pull one more condom over his erection. And then he was in me. He is a tall man and powerfully built. I felt it when his cock bottomed out and his chest landed on me. My breasts flattened at the impact. I kissed his throat and sunk my teeth into his shoulders. Fingernails raked his back. I squeezed his ass with both hands and squeezed his cock with my cunt. I swore at him and pleaded for him to fuck me harder. He pulled my legs over his shoulders and took me faster and deeper. I was a rag doll for him. The alarm clock blinked 4:22 when we started. It read 4:39 when he sprawled next to me, exhausted from his exertion. It was seventeen exquisite minutes of sex that left me panting and sweaty and sated.

I slipped out of bed about three hours later without waking him. A used condom showed under the blanket. As I dressed, I noticed the bite marks and scratches that covered my body in the mirror. Thankfully, the clothes concealed most of it. The bus and tube rides of shame weren’t bad at all. The bath in the morning in my own apartment was absolute bliss.

He gets off on acts he finds humiliating to his partner. We discussed this in detail before we met.

In addition to sucking his cock, he had me suck his big toe. He pressed the bottom of his right foot against the shaft. I spread my jaws wide and took the head and the toe in together. While I stroked my hand over the shaft, I drooled over what I held between my lips. The bottom surface of the foot had thick, coarse skin. My tongue swept over it. The man used his toe to hook my mouth open like a fish and forced the shaft deeper within until the head crashed into the roof of my mouth. I fluttered my tongue and lapped at the cock and the toe and swished my saliva between them. I held the foot in my two hands and sucked the big toe alone, running my lips up and down as though this was his cock. I sucked the other toes as well, one by one, the tongue squeezing in the spaces in between. I held his sole against my breasts. I touched it to my pussy.

He lifted his legs in the air and rocked on his back while I ate his anus. Pulling the cheeks apart, I buried my face between them. The warmth of his body heat surrounded me. I licked around the corrugated ring of muscle before poking my tongue past the sphincter. I kissed him with an open mouth. My jaws worked his asshole. The nerves were sensitive to the press of lips and tongue. My hand jerked his shaft while I pleasured him. For my part, I don’t find the act of asslicking to be degrading. After all, he was the one whimpering incoherently.

After fellatio, he took a thick marker and wrote words on my chest. SLUT, he named me, in big red letters below my breasts. CUNT, he wrote on my belly, with an arrow pointing down. SKET, a word new to me, and SLAG marked my thighs. He scrawled BITCH on my back.

He fucked me from behind. I balanced on hands and knees on the cushioned divan while he pounded me from a standing position. He slapped my ass as he thrust. The girth of the shaft stretched my muscles. I clenched my pussy about it. My fingers rubbed my clit. Gathering my arms in his, he wrapped me in his grip and bit the nape of my neck and mauled my breasts. His hands squeezed my throat, front and back, and he told me to stick my tongue out. After playing his tongue over mine and biting my lips, he jabbed his thumb into my mouth. I washed my tongue over it. When he withdrew his hand, he wiped it in my hair, then turned my face in his direction and spit. The expectorate ran down my cheek.

“Oh, you cunt, look at you,” he said.

We changed position soon after that. Lying on the divan, feet rooted to the ground on either side, he had me mount his penis, facing away. As he fucked me, both of his hands played over my pubis, manipulating the clit until I came. My vagina wrung his cock within. Before orgasm, during, and after, I begged him to take me harder. My pussy was the nexus of all my sensation, the core of my ability to feel. I wanted his cock to possess my cunt. I wanted to earn the appellation of slut that he had given me by virtue of hard use.

“Be rough with me,” I told him. “Don’t be gentle.”

He obliged.

He discovered my blog and e-mailed me about two weeks ago. We arranged to meet near his place on Friday afternoon. I came from home, wearing a tank top, a hoodie, and loose drawstring pants. He came from his office in a business suit. We were an incongruous couple. The conversation in the café before we went to the apartment was social, but unrevealing. He works as a lawyer. He goes to the opera. He is in the middle of a divorce. In negotiating the parameters of play, he asked to take pictures, and I refused. He was attractive and a forceful personality, but there was little warmth or humor in him. He should have placed his hand over mine on the table. He didn’t. He wanted regular meetings. I wanted to fuck like savages once. Already, I knew we weren’t compatible for more. The primary reason I agreed to have sex at all was because he seemed genuinely interested about my schoolwork. We talked about that more than anything.

The encounter was physically satisfying. But there was little emotional response on my part. I wasn’t sent spiraling into subspace as I did the things he asked. I felt dirty and obedient, but emotively disengaged, dissociated. My mind was analytical when I wasn’t being fucked. Having his cock in my pussy elicited a primitive, carnal reaction. My body absorbed the ferocity of his cock and wanted him to hammer me still more violently.

He came three times during our two and a half hours together. The first explosion was in my mouth. The last was in my cunt. The middle was the most memorable. He threw me off his penis and sent me tumbling to the floor. Pulling the condom from his cock, he shot over the hardwood, leaving a foot long streak and a puddle at his feet. He told me to lick it up.

I dropped my body low on the ground and stuck my ass high in the air. My breasts brushed along the floor as I obeyed his instruction. I licked up the come, tongue dragging over the dense wood, tasting dust along with semen. I slurped his ejaculate, rolled it in my mouth, mixing it with saliva, then spat it back onto the floor, and vacuumed it up again. I pressed my face to the wood and left sloppy kisses as I drank. My lips and the flat of my tongue were intimate where we had stepped. My chin and my cheeks and my nose became sticky with the fluids. I had the semen in my hair. It took me long minutes to wash away his spendings. The wood was stained with a large wet spot when I finished.

I am reconsidering the wisdom of meeting the readers of my blog for sex. This could be one-off in more ways than one.